BowlYou see, dear reader, my mindís a bowl
Full of words Iíve cut from real life,
All jumbled. When I want to write
I shake it and pick a handful-
Lay them on the table, arrange
Them so they make a lick of sense.
More often than not theyíre nonsense.
At times they can be downright strange.
But I hold out hope for when theyíre
Something so beautiful I stare
In disbelief that I made it.
Iíd blush to take the credit.
These are the times Iím glad to be
A poet, though thereís no money,
Or fame or sex involved in it.
I get enough of that as is.
Poetry by Sameen
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Written on 2017-12-21 at 19:15
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